


split my mouth wide open

by dragon_rider



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Physical Abuse, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake can yell at him and rough him up as much as he wants. Adam isn't going anywhere.</p><p>He's always had a hard time describing what love is but maybe this is it.</p><p>Love is never giving up on someone, even if they hurt you. Love is taking blames even when the only thing you did wrong is being who you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	split my mouth wide open

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majestikmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestikmoose/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to my very twisted but sweet partner in crime, Katey ❤❤❤.
> 
> This kinda sucks a lot, baby, but I'll make it up to you, okay? I hope you like it at least a little bit.

It starts out small, as most things do.

Blake has always been a mean drunk. Contrary to popular belief though, he’s seldom drunk.

When he _is_ , Adam would rather steer clear from him than deal with him and all the apologies Blake won’t ever make in the morning because he never remembers a thing he says but Adam always does and they pile up over his heart like bricks on a demolition site.

His jokes are always treading the thin line between a good laugh and plain mockery and with alcohol involved, the words lose the light tone that usually lets Adam know he’s kidding and his eyes are too clouded to read his true intentions there either so there’s no way out of how fucking crushed Blake’s outbursts make him feel.

Sometimes Adam wonders if Blake himself even knows whether he’s being serious or not.

All that anger he’s been bottling up inside—there must be a reason it comes all pouring down on Adam, right? He must’ve done something, at some point or another, that made Blake focus it all on him.

“You cocky son of a bitch, you should’ve learned your damn place by now,” Blake lashes out every now and then, the words changing but the meaning remaining the same, “Wonder why so many people hate you? ‘Cause there’s nothing special ‘bout you and you act like there is. What’s there not to hate ‘bout that?”

Adam’s response is always a minute tick in his jaw, a tight purse of his lips in a facsimile of a smile that Blake hammered as he is can’t tell apart from the real thing.

He doesn’t notice how it starts escalating because he’s not smart enough, because he’s too busy patching every rough edge of their relationship with great sex and little declarations of love that fly right over Blake’s head but that make Adam think maybe there’s hope for them because at least the man still comes back to him whenever he can.

No matter how bendy and loud and compliant Adam is for him, Blake keeps drinking.

It’s never enough, whatever Adam does or tries doing to soothe aches he can’t even name because Blake won’t open up to anything but the bottom of a bottle, and it’s not long before Adam realizes it won’t ever be because _he_ isn’t good enough.

He’d wonder why Blake gravitates around him despite of it but he’s never been the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Blake wants him around and Adam will take him however he can get him.

He wishes he could help Blake because this isn’t him and Adam can feel him slipping through the cracks of the glasses he throws as if he could get rid of whatever’s bothering him just as easy, smashing it into oblivion.

He just—he wishes that he could be better.

***

“Keep your goddamn voice down!” Blake yells at him. He’s so harsh in opening the door of Adam’s studio it creaks in its hinges and Adam jumps off the piano bench, staring at his lover with wide, stunned eyes, “Your squeaks are giving me a fucking headache.”

“Sorry,” Adam murmurs, hating himself for the way his eyes water so quickly he has to blink several times before being able to see clearly again. Blake loves his voice when he’s sober, he assures quietly to himself, and that makes breathing easy again, “I’ll keep it down, baby.”

Endearments are a blade with two edges when Blake is this smashed—it can either end wonderfully or badly for Adam and he never knows which one it’s going to be but he’ll take his chances now, if only to make Blake shut up for two seconds.

Blake licks his lips, swaying by the doorframe. His long legs carry him to the front man in about four strides and soon enough he’s tugging at Adam to go back to bed with him, kissing and sucking marks on his neck, his big hands squeezing Adam’s ass cheeks and pressing him to his groin.

Adam shivers and gasps but refrains from getting too excited—his lover can’t perform when he’s this plastered, not that Adam’s ever going to tell him that—letting Blake guide them back to his bedroom and sprawl on top of him like a particularly horny and big angry cat.

Blake is snoring about five minutes later, his face tucked into Adam’s neck and his breath warm and moist against his skin.

Adam smiles slightly, even though the air reeks of booze, and cards his fingers through Blake’s messy curls until he’s fast asleep too.

***

Sometimes Adam daydreams about asking Blake to stop drinking for him.

It’s nothing but that—a fantasy—and even though he doesn’t ask it hurts as if he had and got the answer he dreaded he would, the only answer he deserves.

“Please,” Blake sneers at him, takes yet another swing of Bacardi out of a bottle that seems bottomless because Adam only wants it to be empty but it never is, not fast enough, never fast enough, “Look at you, who’d want to fuck your skinny ass? Who’d want you at all if they knew how you like it, you little cockslut?”

***

The first time it happens, Blake isn’t even supposed to be at his place.

Adam is back from a long meeting with the band, tiredly dropping his keys on the bureau, and then he’s being pushed harshly and yelps, staggering to keep his balance and quieten the loud thudding of his heart in his ears.

His panic lasts the couple of seconds it takes him to realize he has a fuming and smashed-looking Blake looming over him. He doesn’t relax, not completely, but he knows Blake would never hurt him in a serious way and that’s enough for him to quell the fight-or-flight response crackling inside of him.

His shoulder smarts from where it hit the wall and he rubs at it but looks up at Blake with a smile all the same.

“Hey you,” he greets, playful, peeking at Blake through his lashes, “This is a nice surprise. Did I keep you waiting?”

Blake practically snarls in reply, shoving him against the door this time. Adam’s back tingles with the force of it but he ignores it, choosing to reach out for the Country star instead of freaking out.

He’s sure Blake will stop once he realizes Adam is here for him now.

“You think you’re worth it, huh?” Blake slurs, his usually sweet twang filled with scorn. He grabs Adam’s wrists and pins them over his head so high up the stretch hurts but Adam swallows and says nothing, “Wanted to kiss that stupid smirk off your face for weeks and this is how you repay me, with fucking nothing!”

Adam knows better by now so he doesn’t apologize or makes up excuses. He scrambles to kneel in front of his lover and mouths him through the worn-out fabric of his jeans instead. That Blake will most likely nod off before they can finish doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it.

Blake keeps cursing him but groans and grips Adam’s nape roughly to keep him in place.

***

Adam stops keeping score after the second time.

Blake backhands him the minute Adam steps into his living room, the blow throwing him to the couch—smacking his shins so hard on the coffee table he doubts he’d be able to stand even if he could move—and the shock of it freezing him in place.

He touches his face gingerly with his fingertips. His jaw stings and there’s a sharp, metallic taste in his mouth that he can’t tell whether it is from a loose tooth or from biting his own cheek with the hit.

He stares up at Blake, stupidly hoping to see something familiar in his eyes—something that tells him Blake is in there somewhere and didn’t mean to hurt him—but only catching the bleary and usual apathy in them, the blue dull and the white bloodshot.

“That will teach you,” Blake mutters, cryptic.

Adam’s breath hitches and his eyes squeeze shut when Blake’s hands are in his personal space again.

The taller man is quiet but rough as he takes Adam upstairs and he’s out like a light the instant they’re horizontal.

It’s easy to sneak out from under him and go back down to the kitchen to get some ice for the swelling but it’s not so easy to ignore the voice in his head that wonders what he did to have this coming and what exactly he can do to make it better.

Blake called him names and threatened to dump his sorry ass but didn’t mention anything specific that Adam did to set him off.

Not that it really matters. This is his fault.

Blake needs something that Adam isn’t giving him and that’s entirely on him.

***

“Nice shiner you got there, bud. Where did you get that?” Blake asks him the next morning, earnestly and completely oblivious.

Adam has a hard time swallowing his cereal both because of his sore jaw and the giant lump that refuses to leave his throat.

He thinks about asking Blake to stop drinking but it’s a fleeting, silly thought. He brushes it aside and shrugs.

“You know me, I’m a klutz,” he replies, casual, clutching the chair beneath his legs and tensing when Blake kneels beside him and brushes the contusion with gentle fingers.

“Well, be more careful, would you?”  Blake drawls, frowning, “I happen to like this pretty face of yours.”

It’s not what he said last night—or any other night in which he’s drunk too much—but Adam doesn’t mention that.

“Really, huh?” he teases instead, “I’d never have guessed.”

He lets the admission that is probably just a joke soothe his pain and parts his lips to kiss Blake thoroughly, lingering despite of the uncomfortable way the bruise pulls at his skin and the tender bone underneath.

It’s a good thing Blake leaves around noon.

Adam doesn’t think he could’ve held back much longer.

He curls up in his bed and cries quietly, his dogs settling around him to comfort him but whining when he can’t make it out of the sheets the rest of the day.

***

Sometimes it's difficult to remember that Blake loves him and sure, the man might be an alcoholic but he's not a liar. A love confession is how he convinced Adam of dating him and a love confession is what binds Adam to him in the best and the worst times.

He hasn't said it back and that's only one of the reasons why he deserves this.

***

Every time Adam looks at himself in the mirror and sees all the different colors tainting his skin, he’s reminded of what an awful boyfriend he is.

He needs to try harder for Blake, he knows that, but for the life of him he can’t figure out what else is there for him to give that could make everything right, that could make it _enough_ , that could save Blake from the pit he’s stubbornly throwing himself in every time he drinks.

***

Adam learns to be alert whenever Blake is getting even slightly tipsy. He doesn’t mind the punches, he really doesn’t, but he can’t afford to get socked in the face often because the discolorations take around two weeks to go away completely and whether he likes it or not he’s the face of the band and he needs to make an effort to protect their image.

He dodges or covers his face with his arms. It’s not like Blake actually cares where his fists strike as long as Adam squeals and looks properly chastised for making him wait—even though he usually isn’t even aware Blake is in town—or for whatever it is he does to upset him.

He learns to tense before the smacks come. It hurts less that way even if it means Blake curses and ridicules him more for it.

His lover keeps blacking out, the apologies Adam needs to hear conspicuous by their absence.

He tells himself he doesn’t deserve apologies anyway. He’s the one fucking up, making Blake’s problems worse and bigger by not figuring out what he needs to do to help him.

It’s the day after Blake hurls a half-empty bottle at his head that Adam barely manages to avoid that breaks loudly against the wall and that leaves him trembling and gaping on the floor that the Country singer approaches him before leaving yet again.

Adam is still shaken, can’t help the flinch when Blake grips his chin between two fingers and tilts his head up.

Blake might be sober now and it might be safe but Adam can’t be too cautious, not after last night, so he makes himself as small as he can and waits with eyes darting between Blake’s shoulder and the door.

“Hey,” Blake says, his voice warm and soft helping Adam to relax in his hold, “I just wanted to thank you. You never give me shit for—for drinking too much, y’know, and that means a lot to me, Adam. You’re always here for me even though I’m a wreck.”

Adam gulps, finally locking eyes with Blake’s bright blue ones. His boyfriend’s features are gentle—loving, even, if Adam looks at them close enough—and suddenly he wants nothing but to cling to Blake’s neck and never let him go.

If that means he has to be Blake’s punching bag, so be it.

He can’t believe Blake is thankful, that he’s actually been doing what Blake needed all along.

He smiles, climbing to the older man’s lap when he sits down beside Adam on the couch to make out with him for minutes that seem simultaneously long and not long enough.

When they part, Blake kisses his cheek and Adam tries not to hiss as his hands roam over his back and thighs right on top of the newest bruises he got during this visit.

“Adam, I didn’t—“ Blake licks his lips, pausing to cup Adam’s face and making the lead man look curiously at him, “I didn’t force myself on you, did I? You were so jumpy this morning and Miranda told me that sometimes—sometimes I tried to do that when I—“

“What?” Adam cuts in, a nervous little laugh escaping him at the new tidbit of information about the reason Blake’s marriage failed. It probably makes him sick but he can take anything Blake throws his way. He won’t lose him like Miranda did, “No, of course not.”

Blake smiles, relieved, and Adam kisses the bit of dimples showing on his cheeks, palm wide on the side of the Country star’s neck and fingers stroking his hair.

“I’ll go to your ranch next time, how’s that?” he offers, something warm and pleasant settling in his chest as Blake leans into his touch, “I’m free for a couple of weeks next month.”

“I’d love that,” Blake states, kissing Adam’s brow with a playful grin on his lips, “Could make a cowboy out of you yet.”

Adam chuckles, sighing as Blake squeezes the inner side of his thighs with prodding thumbs.

“You’re gonna lose your flight, idiot,” he warns, spreading his legs for him all the same.

Blake groans, chagrined, and Adam loves how fucking difficult it seems for him to let go of Adam’s body.

“Gonna have you right on my porch when you come home,” he breathes out, voice low and raspy, and Adam bites his lip to stifle a moan that he knows would make Blake lose control and stay for a few more hours.

His lover has commitments to attend to and Adam won’t let him miss them.

He looks at him through half-lidded eyes and smacks him lightly on the chest.

“Get the fuck out already, you’re so late, dude.”

***

Blake makes good on his promise, taking Adam right after they get out of his pickup.

They don’t even get Adam’s suitcase into the house first.

He simply lifts Adam to the porch’s fence like Adam weights nothing and kisses him as if he’s trying to make up for all the time they’ve spent apart.

There’s no one in miles and miles around to see them and there’s something to say about this kind of freedom—wild and boundless, no need of pretending in a place where it’s only them and Mother Nature as witness.

Blake grunts, scarcely getting Adam’s skinny jeans out of the way to outline his rim with blunt fingers. He rips a packet of lube with his teeth and Adam throws his head back, holding himself on the fence with a white-knuckled grip.

He wishes he could open his legs more but it’s impossible with his jeans still on and it doesn’t look like Blake will want to stop long enough for him to take them off—not that he’s really complaining about that because this is fucking hot.

He can’t remember another time when he’s felt this wanted, this needed by Blake or by anyone else ever. He’s practically tearing up, cheeks so reddened he thinks his head might explode.

Blake scissors his fingers inside him until Adam is trembling and his voice has gone hoarse with how much he’s moaned and begged Blake to get it on already.

They both struggle to get one of Adam’s legs free without even taking his shoe off and then Blake thrusts in, just like that.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Adam, yeah,” Blake rumbles between gritted  teeth, hands gripping Adam’s thighs to keep him in place as his hips snap into him, “Always—always wanted to do this, you’re so fucking good to me.”

Adam’s leg closes around him tighter, flushing Blake’s body to his and trapping his leaking cock between them. He doesn’t touch it, has no intention to, choosing to hold on to Blake’s neck with both arms and enjoy the ride, focusing on the way Blake’s length breaches him over and over and brushes just the right spot to make him whimper and shudder in his hands.

They kiss and bite each other’s mouths until it gets so sloppy it can’t be called a kiss anymore and Adam makes sure to whisper where exactly they can fuck next—anywhere Blake wants—and suck Blake’s earlobe just so to make his cowboy groan and go wild, his thrusts speeding up along with Adam’s pants until he spills inside him and warms Adam’s cheeks even more with how absolutely filthy but incredible he feels.

His lover makes him come with a long, skilled finger brushing his slit and it’s only Blake’s arm firm around his waist what stops him from ending flat on the dirt.

The taller man nuzzles his face tenderly, all smile and dimples, and Adam talks him into not pulling out just yet because for once, he doesn’t need to.

***

Six days.

Adam counts them with baited breath, knowing each day that passes is another one closer to Blake being piss poor drunk, and when the first blow comes it still takes him by surprise.

He ends up in a heap on the floor, cradling his middle with both arms after Blake kicked him without as much as a fuck you first.

“You fucking good-for-nothing,” Blake snarls on his face, gripping Adam by the hair to get him up hard enough to make him whimper, “You’re a fucking whore, you know that?”

Adam doesn’t know what he did wrong but it must be real bad because Blake doesn’t stop there—he keeps kicking and throwing punches and no matter how fast or far Adam crawls he always gets to him, always finds him to imprint new bruises on Adam’s once pristine skin.

It’s kind of hilarious, how much worse it is now that they’re at Blake’s home. He doesn’t stop until Adam is wheezing and crying as quietly as he can in a corner of the kitchen, hidden beneath the counter in the dark and wondering how much Blake would hate him if he woke up to discover Adam threw all the booze in his place down the drain.

He doesn’t want to find out so he doesn’t do it, hating himself for not being fast enough and getting a split lip on top of every other bump in his body because the taste of blood makes him gag.

He spends the night right where he is, listening to Blake’s loud snores coming from the living room.

***

He’s doing laundry so he pads in his underwear to snatch one of Blake’s shirts until he has something clean again—he packed very little, lying to his friends about where he was going and how long he’d be gone—buttoning it up before going back to the kitchen to cook breakfast for Blake and some tea for himself since he doubts he’ll be able to keep anything down with how sore his stomach is.

There are some oranges on the counter and he’s busy squeezing them with his hands—it’s still early and Blake’s hangover probably wouldn’t appreciate if he used the juicer he saw in a cupboard—when he feels hands on his hips and jerks so much he knocks the glass and showers the table with orange juice.

“Shit,” Adam scrambles to clean the mess he made up but Blake shushes him and presses him back to his body, warm and loose with sleep, “Let me, let me clean that up—“

“Later,” Blake mumbles in his ear, kissing the shell and sucking a mark right where Adam’s jaw starts to make him shiver all down to his toes, “Why aren’t you naked? That’s the only thing I’m gonna complain about.”

Adam swallows, paling when Blake starts unbuttoning the shirt he borrowed to hide the aftermath of last night.

“Thought you liked it when I wore your stuff, babe,” he remarks, tossing his head back to lean on Blake’s shoulder.

“That I do, honey,” Blake agrees, tugging at the fabric to take it off one of Adam’s shoulders and kissing the bones there tenderly, “But right now I just want to drink in the sight of your pretty skin all there for me to touch, c’mon, off. Gonna eat you out for breakfast.”

Adam winces as he obeys, bending over the kitchen island to let Blake do as he pleases. He keeps his boxers on for now, knowing Blake likes taking his time with those.

Long seconds pass and when Blake’s hand touches the biggest bruise on his back he can’t help but stiffen and try to squirm away.

“Adam, what—“ Blake stammers, vexed, “What happened to you? Your back—“

He swirls around, grasping Blake’s nape to get him down enough for him to kiss. Blake goes with it but only for a little bit, refusing to let the kiss deepen and only peppering Adam’s cheeks with soft kisses when Adam tries to coax him to give in. The kiss stings, even in its softness, and Blake is aware of that if his thumb caressing the broken skin of Adam’s bottom lip is any indication.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know what he should do either—what is he supposed to tell the man he loves? That he did this to Adam, that he’s been doing it for almost as long as they’ve been together?

“It’s nothing,” he lies, looking down as Blake leans his forehead against his, “I’m okay.”

Blake’s breath seems to catch in his chest. He pushes Adam away delicately, careful not to press him against the marble behind him, and looks at him up and down, his eyes lingering in all the welts he left behind and can’t remember doing.

“Did you go out?” Blake asks, an edge of desperation in his voice that breaks Adam’s heart in so many tiny pieces he’s not sure how he remains upright, “You—you didn’t have any of these yesterday, Adam, what the hell happened?”

Adam shakes his head. He reaches for Blake’s hands before they can touch the bruises and squeezes them, pleading.

“You don’t want to know,” he promises, “Trust me.”

“But I do,” Blake drawls, his accent more pronounced with worry and his eyes widening in what Adam hopes isn’t acknowledgement, “Adam, I need to know. Tell me, was this—“

 _Was this me?_ Blake doesn’t finish the phrase but Adam has to bite back a sob anyway. He wipes at his eyes furiously with the back of a hand, holding Blake’s right hand tight.

“You didn’t mean to,” he says, voice cracking, “It’s okay.”

Blake doesn’t let go of him as if Adam’s burned him and that surprises him. It’s not what he was expecting at all, how Blake seems completely horrified but cradles him carefully in his chest, his arms enveloping Adam in a warm embrace that feels so right and—and so _safe_ he knows there’s something seriously wrong with him.

This is the man who’s been assaulting him at least twice a month and it’s the same man—the only man—that Adam can relax with, the only one he allows to touch him in ways no one else ever has and yeah, that includes the hitting.

“Adam, Jesus, I—I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Blake breathes against his hair. Adam burrows into his neck, shaking his head again to let him know it’s really okay, but his lover keeps going, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s my fault,” Adam mumbles, tears erupting from his eyes as he finally hears the words he’s been waiting all along. Blake’s apology makes his heart clench and he wishes he didn’t want it, that he was strong enough not to need it, “I make you mad. I deserve it.”

Blake makes a sound in the back of his throat—a croaky, pained gush of noise that reminds him of a wounded animal. Adam shuts his eyes tight, praying for Blake not to leave him, and cries louder when Blake keeps shushing him gently and kissing the crown of his head.

His hands draw circles on Adam’s back softly enough not to hurt despite of how sore he is and he can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe he’s such a fuck-up he couldn’t even take what he deserves without making Blake feel bad about it.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, stretching his arms out meekly when Blake picks his shirt up and puts it on Adam again.

“Adam, this isn’t—this is on me, okay? On me, not you,” Blake tells him firmly but Adam shakes his head, twisting the hem of Blake’s shirt around his fingers not to have to look at him, “Why don’t you go wait in bed for me? I’ll make breakfast for both of us.”

Adam is confused by that but he complies—he always does—and even makes an effort to eat half of Blake’s hearty southern breakfast for two that he carries on a tray and leaves in Adam’s lap.

The taller man alternates between chewing and smooching Adam with slightly greasy lips everywhere he can reach as he curls by Adam’s side; his right shoulder, the line of his jaw, the inner and tender side of his wrist and elbow. The tender care fills the void in Adam’s chest that’s been growing with each of Blake’s blows and soon he’s prone in the bed, looking up at Blake with eyes full of wonder.

The Country singer gets Adam off afterward, as if mining an orgasm out of him hollowing his cheeks around Adam could make him feel better even though he doesn’t let Adam reciprocate until the smaller man nudges the hardness between his legs with his thigh and enjoys the way Blake ruts against him like he can’t help himself.

Sure, sometimes Blake losing control isn’t a good thing, but when he’s sober it’s the greatest thing there is for Adam.

They spend the rest of the morning in bed. Blake stops apologizing after he notices Adam just tenses with it but when they finally get up again he opens every bottle of alcohol he owns—and every can of beer that’s in the fridge—and puts everything away for recycling after draining the contents in the sink.

Adam feels warm as he follows Blake around and watches him get rid of every ounce of booze in his house, that fuzzy but wonderful feeling he gets every time Blake does something sweet and unexpected for him, but he also feels guilty and tries to get him to keep the beers at least.

Blake loves drinking, right? Why would he stop just because—just because Adam doesn’t know how to be better for him?

“No,” Blake insists, resolute as Adam’s never seen him, pausing to kiss the pad of Adam’s fingers before closing the trash bag he’s been filling with glass, “I won’t hurt you again, Adam, not ever. It’s cold turkey for me from now on.”

“But—but Blake,“ Adam hitches, “You don’t have to, it—it only happens when you’re really drunk. You can drink, don’t be silly.”

“This been a long time coming, Adam,” Blake assures him and he’s smiling even though he’s making such a big sacrifice for Adam who’s one hundred percent positive he’s not worth it, “I finally have a reason to do it and I’m happy that reason is you.”

Adam blinks. Maybe he’s dreaming? He didn’t even ask and Blake—Blake is giving up alcohol for _him_? “You are?”

Blake gives him a sunny smile and a chaste, brief kiss on the lips after dropping the trash to weave his big hands around Adam’s waist. “Yeah. Means I’m going to keep my promise because I don’t want anything happening to you. Gosh, Adam, you’re the most important thing in the world to me—I’d do _anything_ for you and I sure as Hell can do this.”

Adam smiles coyly as Blake peppers the side of his face with kisses, enjoying how his boyfriend nuzzles his shoulder and the crook of his neck next.

His heart seems to have gained wings, that’s how light and happy he feels, and he wants to do everything he can to show Blake he won’t regret it—even though he might later on—but he’s afraid to speak and break the spell because if he’s dreaming—oh, if he’s dreaming he won’t be able to keep going with things as they are when he wakes up.

Blake leads him to the couch and sucks him again. Adam lets him—it’s been so long since the last time they paid so much attention to his dick he can’t help but get lost in it, arching and moaning and fisting the cushions at each side of him with shaky fingers.

The sight of his lover on his knees between his legs is too much to take so he closes his eyes and vows to himself he’ll make it up to Blake as soon as the maddening but amazing heat twirling in his lower belly stops. The older man seems to relish every sound and spasm his tongue causes in Adam’s body, chuckling around his length when the tightening of his spit-slick lips gets Adam wild enough to start rocking his hips off the couch and into the inviting friction of his lover’s mouth.

Blake digs his fingers into his thighs, groaning as he fucks Adam’s brains right out of his dick, nothing but filthy encouragement until Adam comes deep down his throat with a shouted praise.

He’s so boneless in the afterglow he doesn’t even twitch when Blake keeps kissing his legs and leaving faint lovebites on his hipbones, licking his way up Adam’s flat and hairless front until he latches on a nipple at the same time his index finger tugs at the puckered skin around his entrance.

Adam whimpers, long and amazed, blinking through pleasure-thick tears and willing his tingling limbs to listen to him and put a knee on Blake’s shoulder, his shin pressing on his back to keep his lover right where he is.

“Fuck, Adam, look at you,” Blake murmurs, gruff, teeth closing around Adam’s left collarbone as he pushes just the one finger in. It goes easily, even just wet with spit, and Adam hitches a moan, more than content to let Blake do whatever he wants with him, “So open and trusting for me, even after—how can I ask you to forgive me? How can I ever fix what I did to you?”

“You don’t— _ah_ ,” Adam rests his other leg on Blake’s shoulder, eyelids fluttering as Blake fingers him, tipping his head down to look at those pleading blue eyes, caressing each line on Blake’s face softly with his fingertips, “You don’t have to fix it, Blake, you just have to stay with me, please, if you can—if you can forgive me.”

Blake makes a broken sound again, almost like a sob, but Adam has no time to ask what’s wrong before his lover is kissing him fiercely then and his hands dragging Adam’s hips carefully to the edge of the couch.

He doesn’t know what it says about them but there’s an open bottle of lube waiting to be used on the coffee table, from the first week Adam spent here in which they christened pretty much every surface of Blake’s house.

The noise of Blake’s zipper opening is like music to his ears. He smiles softly when Blake falters, canting his hips up to show him that he wants it, and it’s all the encouragement Blake needs.

“I love you so much, Adam, I do,” Blake rasps against his lips as Adam’s mouth falls open when he bottoms out, his warm southern drawl turning every ‘I’ into soft, endearing ‘ah’s, “I’ll show you, I promise, I’ll show you there’s nothing to forgive. No more fucking this up, no more hurting you until I lose you.”

“Hmmm,” Adam breathes out, clinging to Blake’s broad back, the warmth in his chest suffocating him in the best way possible, “Love you too, Blake—ah—please—“

 _Touch me_ , he almost says, but Blake is already inside his head and giving him what he needs, one of his hands sneaking between them to pump him every time he’s drawing out to give force to his thrusts.

“I’ve got you, darling. I’ve got you.”

***

They run out of time to spend in the ranch.

Adam wants to get more time off to help Blake through the long weeks of recovery he has ahead of him but his boyfriend promises he’ll be in L.A. with him in a week after he takes care of a couple of things.

He has nightmares that he thinks are bad in the few days they’re not together that are nothing compared to the ones Blake has, the nightmares that wake him in the middle of the night and have him trembling and sweating and doubling over the toilet as he retches.

Adam doesn’t need to ask if he feels just as shitty during the day, when Adam isn’t there for him, but he tries to convince Blake to go to a doctor and get pills that could make this period easier for him.

“No,” Blake refuses each time, his handsome features contorting in rage and making Adam’s chest seize and his muscles clench in reflex. It’s all he can do not to run for cover, not to flinch, but Blake seems to notice his gut reaction all the same and his resolution to keep braving withdrawal alone grows, “I don’t deserve any of that, Adam! I almost—I almost broke you, don’t you see? If I want to be good for you, I need to do this on my own.”

“Okay,” Adam accepts, timid, approaching Blake slowly to wipe his lover’s face in between fits, staying close to hug him whenever the taller man crumbles and needs him for support.

Adam isn’t strong enough to carry Blake back to bed so they sit on cold tiles for hours in which Blake is almost delirious but seems appeased as long as Adam cards gentle fingers through his short curls.

His greatest victory is to get Blake to swallow a few drops of medicine to help with the nausea and just to be by his side, biting his cheek and gripping his arms tight each time he feels like running to the store to buy Blake a drink and end with his misery.

Some nights Blake can’t sleep, Adam knows it even though his lover tries to hide it from him, curling around him and breathing regularly to lull Adam to sleep. Those are the worst nights because the Country singer is always aggressive and barely able to control himself the next day, pleading Adam to leave for a few hours as he grips his head with both hands and seems on the verge of a break down.

Three horrible weeks later—plus the week Adam wasn’t even around to see Blake suffering through it all—the symptoms relent and Blake is finally himself twenty four hours of the day, seven days of the week.

This is the man Adam fell in love with and he couldn’t be happier—Blake looks healthy and content, even smug at every party they attend to that he spends pulling Adam to his lap and sipping Coke or ginger ale.

“You quit drinking?” Carson asks the first time it happens, which is actually the first time they admit they’re together now. Their friend is so stunned Adam gets skittish, “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Blake nods, kissing Adam’s temple and making him giggle, “Had a little help though, couldn’t have done it without Adam.”

“That’s not true,” Adam counters, thanking the low lights around them for hiding the blush that rises to his cheeks, “You did all the work.”

Blake knows him so well he knows it’s there anyway and nuzzles the hot skin on his cheekbones, giving him a peck on the lips before confessing, “And it was all for you, honey, all for you.”

Usher chokes on his drink—serves him right, for parading around Blake with it and tempting him—but he looks as happy for them as Carson and everyone else who’s close enough to them to hear the news.

If Blake needs to keep Adam between him and alcohol like a shield every time they’re out to keep his abstinence intact, well, Adam thinks it’s a small price to pay and he actually kind of likes it.

The Country singer seems to shower Adam with attention first and breathe second ever since Adam admitted how he was getting the bruises. He opens doors for him, pulls out chairs, buys him absurdly expensive but fuzzy and cozy sweaters, and Adam learns to be very careful in what he asks for because Blake trips all over his own feet in his haste to get him pretty much everything he wants these days.

***

They go back to Oklahoma since Blake has been away too long and needs to tend to several things.

Blake’s mom has never been particularly enthusiastic about their relationship. She’s always mentioning Miranda and giving Adam the evil eye when Blake isn’t looking.

She seems like a whole different woman when Blake leaves Adam with her this time, fixing a gaze on him that makes Adam think he’s actually a litter of puppies instead of a grown-up man that’s turned her son gay.

He’s trying to make something edible for lunch when she comes into the kitchen and hugs him, tight and out of the blue.

“Thank you,” she says, unshed tears shining in her eyes, “He’s been fighting this for so long—ever since he was fourteen and his brother died and it was only getting worse until he met you.”

Adam opens his mouth to say something but settles for a quiet smile in the end.

It feels really nice, knowing he managed to push Blake into doing something he should’ve done years ago, but he doesn’t think he should take any credit for it.

He also doesn’t tell her how he could never ask Blake to do it or how, if Blake relapsed, Adam wouldn’t go anywhere or reprimand him for it.

“I’m glad he’s not drinking anymore,” he comments while they’re eating, “He was—“ _scaring me_ , “It was changing him too much.”

She nods in understanding and her smile reminds Adam of his own mom, makes him feel loved and appreciated like few things can. “I know. I’m glad that he has you now, to keep him grounded.”

 _It’s the other way around_ , Adam thinks but smiles and cheers when Blake’s mom volunteers to make them dessert.

***

Blake doesn’t lay a finger on him again but Adam still jumps and cringes if he’s startled. It takes Blake almost five minutes to calm him down with soft touches and kisses each time, murmuring vows about how he’s never going to hurt Adam again.

“I’d kill myself first,” he says and Adam huffs and scowls at him, pushing at his chest with hands that seem always too small when he’s touching Blake.

“Don’t you fucking say that, asshole,” he bristles, “You think that wouldn’t hurt me more?”

Blake is ashamed and contrite after that and makes sure to never mention anything like that again. He waits for Adam in L.A. with a romantic and home cooked meal on the table instead and makes love to him, slow and attentive, always taking great care in putting Adam’s pleasure first and his own second.

It’s Adam who still has bad dreams long after Blake is okay, all the harsh words Blake said to him time and time again repeating themselves in his head like a broken record and the blows fresh in his nerve-endings when he closes his eyes.

Blake wakes him up kissing the tears away, rocking him gently between his arms when Adam snaps out of the memories and sits up in bed.

“Sorry,” Adam mumbles, choked off, angry at himself for bothering Blake at the crack of dawn even though nothing was happening at all.

“Shhh, we agreed, no apologies, remember?” he reminds the front man quietly, his lips soft and loving over Adam’s eyelids, “It’s all good.”

Blake gets up and brings him chamomile tea, warm and honey-sweet just like Adam likes it.

He doesn’t complain no matter how bad and ridiculous Adam’s nightmares are and little by little, they begin to thaw and space out so much it’s easy to forget they exist, easy to pretend they never went through such hard times.

When Blake kisses him and looks at him like Adam is a miracle worker, he’s tempted to believe they’re not pretending but accepting what happened and moving on to be good for each other just as they always should’ve been.

“You’re amazing,” Blake tries convincing him often, making Adam fall in love with him even more with every little and fleeting but sweet kiss he gives him in his knuckles, in his wrists, in his nape, “You’re a gift, _my_ gift, and I’m gonna take good care of you.”

Feeling loved and treasured ends up being the best balm for his sore heart and the old but memory-fresh bruises spoiling his body.

And if Adam tries harder to be good for Blake, well, that’s for him to know and for his tall and handsome boyfriend to enjoy.


End file.
